


Another Night

by badass_normal



Category: Prison Break
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-28
Updated: 2008-10-28
Packaged: 2017-10-11 01:08:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/106609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badass_normal/pseuds/badass_normal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Veronica can't escape Lincoln and his self-destructive lifestyle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Night

As always, Lincoln was drunk. Not drunk enough that he was bumping into things, but drunk enough that if he had gotten behind the wheel, he probably would have killed someone.

As usual, but not necessarily always, he had a hot brunette drunker than he was balanced on his arm as he sloppily tried and failed to get the key into the lock.

Huh. That might have its symbolism.

Maybe he should send her home to avoid what could turn into an embarrassing situation in the bedroom.

But he knew his drunken misgivings weren't about fear of performance, of rising to the occasion, if you will. They were about this woman and all the other women who had followed him home and he had booted out the next day, hungover and in emotional pain because his life had become little more than a pattern of drunk, screwing someone, hangover magnitude ten, and sometimes, if he was having a particularly bad day, the adventure of waking up in a bathtub with another guy and anywhere from one to four girls in the apartment of a stranger.

Unfortunately, the rational half of his brain had long been destroyed by alcohol, although the weed probably hadn't been only an innocent bystander to the deterioration of his frontal lobe, which just happened to be the part of the brain that affected judgment.

And since when did he remember anything about the brain's anatomy?

Maybe he had been high in class on that day. He'd heard somewhere that if you learned something when you were high, you would be more likely to remember it when you were high.

He endorsed the theory.

Nameless female number two-hundred forty-nine of 2004, (just a guess, at least it was December,) stumbled inside and he followed her, closing the door behind him perhaps a little louder than necessary. His bed was just around the corner, but he wasn't quite ready to do this. She had to make the first move. Otherwise he was a pig taking advantage of a drunk girl.

"What the hell? Lincoln!" a familiar voice exclaimed from around said corner.

He blinked heavily. "V?"

She scampered into view, dressed in a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved pink shirt. The lovely, wasted brunette was looking at the two of them, squinting as though she was having a hard time seeing Veronica.

"Um, hey," Lincoln addressed the girl. "Do you want me to call you a cab?"

"No, don't bother, I'm taking off," Veronica said disgustedly. He might have been drunk, but he could still see how hurt she was.

"V, wait!" he exclaimed.

With almost perfect timing, his hypothetical hook-up for the evening vomited in his sink.

Wonderful.

"You look like you've got some shit to handle. I gotta go." She tried to get by him, but he stopped her.

"Just give me a few minutes, okay?" he whispered, leaning close to her. He sobered up by maybe five percent, but not enough to realize that transferring some of his nicotine-and-cheap-beer-flavored saliva into her mouth probably wasn't going to help the situation any.

Stupid, useless frontal lobe.

Veronica slapped him across the face as he pulled away from her lips, and when he didn't really feel it he had a sinking premonition that he might be joining his attractive new friend near the sink any time now.

Speaking of which, the appetizing sound of more vomit splashed behind him. Okay, that particular walking bottle of vodka wasn't going away any time soon.

"Oh Lord," Veronica sighed, throwing up her hands and walking angrily over to the young woman. "Even now, age thirty-three, I'm the roommate holding back the fucking hair." She took the girl's hair gently in her fingers and pulled it off of her face. "Let it out, that's it."

Lincoln sat down on the floor. Things stopped being fun when the puking happened.

"You owe me, Lincoln."

He looked up at Veronica drunkenly. "Story of my life."

"You're an adult, not an angsty adolescent. For once in your life, act your fucking age!"

Now there was no need to sound so hostile. "Now there's no need to sound so—so—" How had the word formed in his head a nanosecond ago and he still couldn't remember it?

"Aggressive? Accusatory? Bitchy?"

"Hostile."

"Ooh, big word, Lincoln." Splash, into the sink. "You'll feel better once it's out."

Was she addressing him, or the woman?

"I swear to God, if you start vomiting too, I'm gonna kill you." Again, would she please clarify who she was talking to?

"I gotta piss," he announced, staggering back to his feet. "Don't go anywhere, K?" His bladder felt like it was going to explode whether or not he found the toilet in the next minute or so.

He peed for what felt like an hour, wandered crookedly out of the bathroom, and found Veronica lying the girl on the couch, covering her with a blanket and turning her on her side. She slid the garbage bin next to her, whispered something reassuring to her, before turning to Lincoln.

Oh fuck. Lecture time.

"You are not in a frat house, Lincoln. Not that you'd know, seeing as you never went to college. This is your life, this is who you are now." She motioned to the girl, who appeared to have passed out. "A jackass who drags anyone he can find home with him."

"Since when did you fucking care, college girl?" he spat.

It was apparently emotional drunk time. The hurt was breaking through the stupor.

"Don't throw that at me. You can't blame me for what you've become."

Ouch. "Why does that line sound like a cliché?"

"It is." She was crying, he noticed. Really crying. Shit. "I haven't seen you in a year, I've tried to distance myself, but dammit I keep coming back for you, I keep coming back—"

"No, no crying. Can't handle that right now."

"Fuck you! I just maybe saved your latest potential fuck from choking on her own guts and you can't give me a second to rant at you! How is that fair?"

Wow. He really was a dick. "Wow. I really am a dick."

"I wish I could take you seriously when you said that, I really do."

He had to do it. There was only one way to shut her up, to stop her from screaming these undeniable truths at him.

"Lincoln!" she hissed as he once again stuck his tongue down her throat. "You can't just kiss me and make it all go away. I'd have thought that you'd get that by now."

Well, they said the definition of insanity was trying the same thing over and over again even though it didn't ever work… "Well, I must be insane."

Logical according to his train of thought, but she looked a little confused. Or maybe just pissed off. He was really bad with facial expressions when he had twelve beers and a couple shots in him.

"There's no question that you're insane."

He leaned forward again and kissed her eyelids, where he could taste her tears. She shouldn't be crying.

Ah, another five percent sobriety. He was on a roll.

She closed her eyes and let him kiss her cheeks, her ears, her neck, her forehead, until he reached her lips again.

"Please don't do this to me," she whispered.

Was that an order, or was she just talking?

She was sober, yeah, but that didn't mean he still couldn't be accused of being a drunk asshole accidentally taking a girl without her consent.

"Shoulda thought about that before you came here."

"I came here because I wanted to make sure you weren't _dead_!" she raged very suddenly, grabbing his face and kissing him hard.

So she did want him.

"I came here thinking maybe, just _maybe_, you'd be sober and we could reconnect without _screwing_!" She pulled his shirt over his head and lowered her mouth to his chest. He held her head in his hands, trying to keep the world from spinning. Using her as an anchor.

"I came here to see if I could finally get rid of you." This time a whisper against his bare chest, and he was glad she had calmed down. The noise hurt his head.

She dragged him into bed. So he _was_ going to get laid tonight.

Dammit, this wasn't about "getting laid." This was Veronica. With her, it was never about "getting laid."

Focus. Clear your head. Remember that tonight you're making love, not screwing around.

He took his pants off while he was still standing, removing his boxers with them. She lay on the bed, undressing.

"You know, I'm still offended about that whole getting rid of me thing." He rolled onto her naked body, and her hands swept down to where he was, thankfully, not going to have performance issues after all.

"I wasn't kidding. You've been in my head for so long." She was using her hand on him, and that was enough for him to not have to hear what she was saying. "I don't know what it's like to have you not there."

"Well, go me." She hadn't stopped crying, he saw, and at his words more tears flooded down her cheeks.

"And I have to keep telling myself that you're being drunk and stupid." She cupped his ass in her hands and suddenly yanked him against her.

"I have a feeling we've done this before," he suddenly said as he pushed inside of her. She gasped and he felt her hands grab his forearms.

"Déjà vu?"

"This exact conversation, in fact." He didn't know when he started thrusting, he simply noticed that something felt very good inside of him, and that the mattress was moving.

She was sobbing, but at the same time holding onto him like he was everything she had ever wanted. And somehow, he knew he was.

He couldn't last much longer, not when he could feel how badly she needed him. She was the only person who had ever needed him.

She came with a moan, one that was filled with such emotional agony that it turned his own orgasm into the same.

Great. Just great. You know it was a bad idea to have sex when both parties feel like killing themselves afterward.

"Am I always drunk when we do this?" he asked as he turned over and lay next to her on top of his unmade bed.

"Yeah." She now sounded more depressed than ever.

"Is there always a girl sleeping on my couch?" He really wanted to know.

"Usually."

Now that was messed up. "I'm sorry."

"Heard that one before." She stood up, got dressed.

Maybe he would have preferred if he had just gotten laid by the brunette snoring on his couch. Love just fucked things up.

He hoped he didn't remember this next morning.

Apparently he usually forgot about it anyway. Until it happened again.

\--

Veronica left in tears, walking home through the freezing December night. Of course she never went to find Lincoln with the _intention_ of sleeping with him, but it always happened.

She was dating someone. A nice guy named Sebastian. Someone whom everyone else on the planet would have called her soul mate. They sure acted like it, and sometimes she felt like it. But inside she knew that her true soul mate was nothing like her. He was a drunk, a cocaine addict, he was with a different woman every night. And somehow, she kept coming back, and he kept taking her. Every time, he would drop whatever he was doing, (or whichever girl he was screwing,) and let her shout and cry and steal his attention. And they would make love, if you could even call it that.

It was never a "harder, faster" kind of love. It was lovemaking that came so naturally that there had never been any need for "harder, faster." And back when they were dating, it had never been important. But now it seemed that all either of them could settle for was the sex.

She would limp back brokenly to her perfect boyfriend, they would probably be together for another few months, and that would be it.

But she knew she would always come back for Lincoln.


End file.
